


Revelations

by HalfwayToHell



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternative Universe - FBI, FBI Agent Dean Smith, FBI Agent Sam Wesson, Hostage Situations, M/M, Mentions of Sex, Religious Content, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Religious Psychosis, Serial Killers, Swesson
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-21
Updated: 2017-08-21
Packaged: 2018-12-18 03:24:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11865657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HalfwayToHell/pseuds/HalfwayToHell
Summary: Sam Wesson may be one of the youngest agents at the Federal Bureau of Investigations, but his reputations proceed him as one of the most talented and well-established agents. After local authorities call the FBI in for assistance on a case that involves a serial killer with a God complex that seemingly suffers from religious psychosis, Sam Wesson meets his new partner, Dean Smith, who is also quite the talented agent himself, but as Sam gets to know Dean, he realizes there is more to his new partner than what meets the eye and Sam soon finds himself having to fight for his life.





	Revelations

                                                            

 

* * *

 

When Sam Wesson opened his eyes, he was met with a world that spun and titled and jerked like an unforgiving tide, pulling him upwards and under, rolling him head over heels under the current. All different colors and shapes attacked his vision, causing his mind to reel and his head to fall back, the base of his skull resting against the smooth, wooden edge of the back of the chair he was seated in. His tongue was heavy in his mouth, a cotton swab sticking to the roof of his mouth and no matter how many times he had tried to wet his tongue or swallow the cotton ball in the back of his throat, he could never seem to gather enough saliva to rid him of the dry cotton in his jowl.

 

Sam’s eyes squeezed shut as he silently begged for the spinning to stop and he took in deep breaths through his nose in hopes that it would help subdue the nausea that overtook him from the constant whirling. This did not help him as Sam suddenly jerked forward, vomiting the contents of his stomach down the front of his shirt and pants, the acidity stinging his nose and causing his eyes to water. He retched until the only thing coming up was stomach bile that burned his throat and nose and once he had nothing left to chuck back up, Sam gagged and dry heaved until his chest and abdomen hurt. His breaths were shaky as his chest shuddered with each inhale and exhale and a coldness suddenly flushed through him, causing him to shiver violently.

 

After what Sam could only assume was a few excruciatingly slow minutes—and trying not to think of the incredibly warm sick seeping into his clothes against his flesh—he allowed his eyes to flutter open to brace the spinning world again.

 

His eyes squinted against the ceiling, taking in the details of the porous cement above him before he gradually shifted his eyes to the lightbulb hanging from the ceiling only five feet away from him which swayed back and forth like the pendulum inside of a great grandfather clock. The light’s intensity caused Sam to look away, a hiss slithering through his teeth as pain gripped his eyes and for a moment and the fact that his eyes were bizarrely sensitive to light caused a wave of panic to trickle through him.

 

 _No_.

 

He couldn’t panic—panicking did not help anyone, something he had learned very well during his training at the Federal Bureau of Investigations. Taking in another deep, stimulating breath, Sam convinced himself to take a look at his surroundings in hopes that perhaps he could piece together where he was and what was going on. No memories had come back to him quite yet of the past events leading up until that moment, but Sam knew that something was blocking him from remembering right then. If he could give himself some time, he could figure it out.

 

Sam persuaded himself of this as he willed his eyes to open again, compelling himself to inspect his surroundings despite the world spinning around him like an unyielding top. His eyes fell on the same porous concrete to the side of him and his eyes followed the wall until he found a rusting fireplace settled in the farthest corner from him. His eyes then traveled to the window on his left, nowhere big enough for a human being to squeeze through. Located beneath the window, was a workshop bench and counter that was oddly bare. Tilting his chin down to his chest, Sam could see a drain located between his feet.

 

_Basement?_

 

It was one of the first things Sam had managed to piece together and he forced himself to sit up a tad straighter. His eyes fell on the wooden stairs descending from the ceiling located directly in front of him and it only confirmed to him his original impression. The spinning slowed enough for Sam to sit even straighter in his seat and when tried to will himself to stand, he felt something holding him firmly in place.

 

He glanced down to see the ropes tied impressively tight around his chest and upper arms and his hands were bound by hand cuffs in front of him. The only part of his body that was not restrained was his head and feet and legs. Aside from those observations, Sam realized that he was alone in the basement—for now.

 

It was then that Sam felt a sudden shudder pass through him, causing a shiver to trickle down his spine and goose flesh raised on his skin as he grasped how cold he was. It was not something he had noticed earlier when the world was spinning and he understood that he was coming down from a high of some sort—no doubt he had been drugged with _something_ in order to get him to be agreeable enough to hold him hostage—which would explain his nausea and vomiting, cotton mouth, and the spinning that was barely coming to an abrupt, violent halt.

 

Fierce shivers passed through his body, his muscles clenching excruciatingly and Sam’s teeth chattered together. Try as he might to clench his teeth to stop the chattering of his teeth, the cold was too much for his body to withstand. Sam’s lips felt numb and he tried to press them together in order to create some form of heat, but his lips felt like ice shards.

 

Forcing himself to focus on something else in an attempt to ignore the cold in hopes he could lessen the impact it made on his body, Sam closed his eyes, trying to remember what happened leading up to now. He remembered waking up that morning at six like he always did, he had gone for a ten-mile run and was back home by seven. Sam had showered, eaten breakfast and was dressed and at the local police department by eight to join the rest of his team members.

 

Sam’s body had been sore—he recalled—but not from the jog he had done earlier that morning. It had been from the sinful events that had taken place at the master suite Sam had been staying in since earlier that month when he was called in by local authorities for assistance. He could still feel the cool, soft touch of the Egyptian cotton sheets beneath his body, the way his heated and sweat coated skin stuck to the bedding—the way the bed springs creaked each time the other man above him thrusted inside of him, causing not only the headboard to shift but his body to quiver with the other man between his thighs.

 

Calloused fingers that had spent far too many years working on cars had his arms pinned above his head as the other man’s teeth had grazed his skin and sucked purpling flowers into his neck and chest. Sam could even remember the sinful sounds that had escaped passed his own quivering lips and the earth-shattering way the other man had made him feel. The way his mouth had formed the other man’s name, each time he spoke his breaths becoming more and more desperate, a whine had taken over his tone. Sam could still feel the man’s hot breath on his neck as he had whispered filthy nothings into Sam’s ear, which had caused his body to quake at the sensual promises the other man had made him.

 

He then remembered the briefing, the one he had given when he discovered a promising lead that had nearly fallen right into his lap and an overlooked detail that had shaken the very core of the investigation, making the entire month Sam had spent with hardly any sleep, huddled over documents worthwhile. The details after that were a bit fuzzy, disjointed, coming in in slivers and frayed fragments and he struggled to try and call those memories forward, knowing the ones that were evading him would assist him the most. Sam’s eyebrows pulled together as he tried to wade through the missing pieces, shifting through them and turning them over and over, searching for the missing clue that was locked away somewhere in his conscious—nearly out of his reach. After a few grueling minutes of searching, another piece of information came to him a few moments later.

 

Dinner.

 

He had been asked out to dinner by his partner—the man in which he had been spending most of the time between his sheets with.

 

 _Dean Smith_.

 

Sam’s eyes snapped open when he heard the creek of the door from above the stair case open, a high-pitched cry as if the hinges on the door themselves were screaming in agony. His heart fluttered like a bird trapped in the bone cage of his chest cavity, his pulse roaring at such a deafening volume that Sam almost did not catch the sound of feet coming down the stairs, each step methodical and filled with purpose as the person who held him captive descended into the basement.

 

Sam’s heart stopped abruptly. His breath fell through his lips shakily and his chest shuddered. His eyes widened as he stared up at the man in front of him, a look of betrayal and shock burrowing into the fine features of his face. Sam open and closed his mouth numerous times, trying to find the right words to say. But what he could he say?

 

He wondered this as his eyes met the pair of pine green eyes so void of emotion that Sam could have thought that just for a moment, they did not belong to a human being. There was no warmth in them, no glimmer of life. Just a haze of deep green and black. The once familiar face seemed to belong to a stranger now. The nutmeg freckles dusted out like constellations in the creamy sky of the other man’s complexion seemed alien to him. The full mouth, once rosy and graced with a white toothed smile was now pulled into a firm line.

 

“Dean,” Sam whispered at last, his voice so faint that it fell from his lips as quiet as a breath but even so, the man in front of him could hear his statement.

 

“No,” the other man answered, a familiar voice belonging to a familiar face that now all seemed so outlandish to Sam’s ears.

 

It was all so wrong.

 

“Who are you then?” asked Sam, his voice cracking then, the shock finally fading from his voice.

 

The sandy haired man in front of him was silent for a good long while. Unsympathetic green eyes examined him, picking him apart before putting him back together again. Sam pressed his spine against the back of the chair, attempting to distance himself from that unfriendly stare that was dissecting him over and over again.

 

“My name is Michael,” the man before him who wore a frighteningly identifiable face finally answered. “and I am an angel of the Lord.”

 

* * *

 


End file.
